The management at Davauer.com would like to express its deepest regrets involving an error in an earlier posting. The board of directors has notified publishing that there are no hot flashes being experienced and that they are not an old lady or something. The writers would like to take this opportunity to explain that, while knowing there were no hot flashes, they could not pass up the weather system/ultrasound joke opportunity. They insist they are only doing their best to entertain the readers, but would also like to acknowledge they don’t think The Board is an old lady or something. Thank you for reading Davauer.com.

You know you have the coolest baby around when they are on YouTube and they’re still five months away from being born. Hey, some parents start their kid’s trust fund early, some start their MySpace profile.

The video doesn’t seem to show much at first glance, but it turns out that ultrasound is a deep and complex world of baby information. I know, it’s pretty easy to tell it’s the smartest, most handsome and best dancing baby ever, but other things are less obvious. You can, for instance, tell the sex of The Bean from close inspection of the video. Shhh! Don’t tell us. We prefer not to know weather we are going to have to get our whining adolescent a pink iPhone or a blue iPhone until we absolutely have to know.

Now, I am no expert, indeed, I have only experienced one ultrasound in my life, but I’m pretty sure that the baby has it’s own weather system. This may be what responsible for the temperature changes of the mother. Hot flash? Or Cold front coming down over an area of low pressure?

When you’re all done they give you a picture* - the first picture ever - of your baby to take home. The problem is that the first picture ever of your baby looks more like a picture of a hobbit demon or maybe a scene from Leprechaun. Honestly though, it is an intensely emotional experience to look into the eyes of the hobbit demon. To make it a little easier though, we had an FBI profiler do an artist’s conceptual drawing of what The Bean might really look like in there… listening to his mother laugh all day… sitting under his own weather pattern…

To Bean: Nice stash, I like your style dude.

*They also give the mother a towel to wipe off the enormous amount of what looks like snot that they smeared all over her belly.

I’m happy to inform everyone that our baby is right on track with learning pilates and yoga. As you can see from the artist’s rendering, Baby Skittles is taking sitting Indian style to the next level. It’s so extreme the leg is labeled so you don’t get confused. No, that isn’t a giant brow with a foot on it… it’s a leg.

Well, the first trimester is over. It’s the most theoretical of trimesters.* If you don’t remind yourself your life has dramatically changed, you think things are exactly the same. People don’t let you forget for long though. A few questions start to sound familiar. Survey says!..

“When’s it due?”
“Are you going to find out if it’s a girl or boy?”
And “Have you picked out any names yet?”

Like I said, it’s all very theoretical at this point so, at first, you’re kinda like, “What? why are you asking me these questions?” And then, “Oh yeah, we’re pregnant. Um, mid-June, no and yes. Zaphod, boy or girl.”

Anyway, the fact that it’s so non-physical gives you a chance to really let it all sink in. It’s like getting accepted to a college or being hired for a job. You’re excited that at least one of your millions of applications were accepted at the local opening, but now that you’ve got the job, you’re getting a little nervous. Will the boss like you or will he/she not even talk to you for years?

One thing I’ve gleaned so far is that baby clothes take on a power hereto unwitnessed. I think they are a cuteness surrogate for the baby until it arrives. I am a liberal guy and look forward to poopy diapers and all, but I don’t think I have the the gene sequence that reacts to the cuteness of baby clothes. I mean, they are cute, but mostly they’re just really, really small - which is the truly fascinating thing to me. Have you ever seen newborn baby socks? Like thumb warmers. We just received a giant freezer bag of baby socks from a friend, and you would think it is a duffel bag full of cash. Just raising it out of the box leaves the room in silent awe. If cuteness had a currency we could retire.

If tiny baby socks are cute, tiny baby toenails must be beyond cute. The size of all things baby however, are measured by some sort of fruit or vegetable. Zaphod has gone from a bean to a grapefruit in this first trimester. The next trimester will see his/her development through the many varieties of the melon family. Oh, I just thought of a name… Jolly Rancher or JR for short. No wait, Skittles… yeah, Baby Skittles.

*For me anyway. Rachel might not think the puke that accompanied this trimester was very theoretical.

Thank God I’m already married because the only people who love a good moustache are much older ladies and men.

A good moustache is like like walking around with a red satin cape. Most people don’t understand why you would do it, but at the same time they just can’t help but admire the quality of such a thing. It’s almost difficult to carry on a conversation. A few words into my answer to “What have you been up to?” I notice people have zoned out and are lost in the stash.

What started out as a vacation from the guy in the mirror became sort of an adventure. There are so many associations to be made with wearing a moustache, people just have to voice their opinion. You must look like someone. A cowboy, a villain hatching an evil plan or, my favorite, a guy riding a bicycle with one giant wheel and one tiny wheel.

As I said earlier it really appeals to a couple of specific groups though. I think girls under the age of 65 have no desire to have a closer look. Just the opposite I’m afraid. I have seen teams of teenage girls cross the hall and pass me in muffled whispers that I’m pretty sure have something to do with the handlebars. The more mature crowd however seem to love it. Maybe it’s associated with success in past. Some real catches of the olden days wore some serious handle bars, folks like Frederick William Vanderbilt, Kaiser Wilhelm II and King George V. I think when these ladies meet me, they can’t help but picture my manor with all its thick gilt frames stoic butlers. I’ll have to look into what it takes to attach “Kaiser” to my name. Maybe throw a “Von” in there for good measure.

Men seem to have an innate respect for a quality piece of facial topiary. Probably a left over king of the jungle type of thing. There are never laughs from men, just a subtle nod, squint of the eyes and look of animalistic trust. “Yeah, I’d run in your pack.” Those with the thin, patchy curse just look down, point at spots on their face and mumble something about how they could never grow anything but wish they could.

While it is fun to capitalize on the prehistoric power of the push broom it is not as easy as having a part in your hair. What used to be a fairly straight forward journey of food from plate to mouth is now a complex task wrought with fears and anxiety. “Did it get in the stash? Is it still there? How do I get it out?” Fears that betray my non-pack-leading status.

For now I will join the ranks of such as Friedrich Nietzsche, William Howard Taft, Rollie Fingers, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Salvador Dali and the Mario twins. If I can stick with it, I may even have to send in my application for The Handlebar Club. Distinguished company indeed.